


Safe Place

by distantglory



Series: Zaz's Gang AU [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, also sort of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantglory/pseuds/distantglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martel is not used to having a safe place. Greed's working on that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Place

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cwtch](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/98669) by quatercomet (Zaz). 



> It all started when Zaz and I learned that 'cwtch', the Welsh word for an affectionate hug, might be translated to something like 'safe place'. Then Zaz drew an incredibly adorable piece of Greed/Martel fanart for an AU she's putting together. And then I wrote this.
> 
> The relevant facts for the AU in question can be summed up thus: 1) everyone is human except when they're not; 2) human experimentation is still a thing; and 3) Wrath is a real jerk.

Greed is dozing on the couch when Martel emerges from the basement. She’s quiet; a human probably wouldn’t have heard her. But Greed isn’t quite human, and even if his senses weren’t that sharp to begin with, years in the lab had a way of honing your senses. The last thing you wanted in that place was for anything to take you by surprise. So he hears the almost soundless slap of her bare feet against the wooden floor, and his awareness snaps back into the present. 

By the time she’s close enough to see him, he looks lazy—sunglasses tossed carelessly on the floor, boots up on the battered couch—but not sleepy. 

She doesn’t notice him at first, which isn’t like her. She’s got a blanket around her shoulders and her hair is sleep-mussed, which might have explained the lack of attention in anyone else—but there are also dark circles around her eyes and bits of wet hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck, and that’s the more likely explanation. 

Greed doesn’t move, but he wonders if he can get his sunglasses without Martel noticing. He knows that his eyes will have gotten sharp and hard. It seems like she’s already having a bad time of it, so he closes them a moment and wills himself calm. It’s not easy, but he’s getting quite a bit of practice at it when it comes to his chimeras. They all have their little tells, the ways that the labs have marked them. Greed notices every single one of them. He’s keeping a mental account, and one day he’ll present the bill to Wrath. 

And by ‘present’, he means ‘take out of his brother’s hide’.

That thought makes him smirk. He’s not normally one for ‘someday’, but in this case he’s enjoying the anticipation.

Martel is still drifting across the room, moving almost silently on bare feet.

“Looking for something?” Greed drawls, keeping his voice easy.

He sees her hand go for the knife she always keeps on her, then check herself when she recognizes his voice. Greed adds another point to Wrath’s account. Martel’s been with him for over a month now, and she doesn’t usually reach for her knife anymore when he startles her. 

He also sees her trying to pull herself together and yeah, no. He’s not going to let it go that easily. But he has to be subtle, has to be gentle. You can’t poke too hard at someone’s sore spots without them trying to fight back, and when it comes to Martel, he’s not actually sure that she won’t bite. 

And he has no idea whether they crossed her with a venomous snake or not. 

“Hey, boss,” she says. She pushes back her hair, trying to make it casual as she shoves sweat-stuck hair off her skin. Then she drapes her blanket over the back of the next couch, so that sans the bare feet, she looks almost normal. 

Greed doubts that she’s conscious of trying to minimize her weaknesses; it was probably an automatic process even before the labs. Men still outnumber the women in the police force, especially in the special units. He doesn’t doubt that she had to put up with a lot of shit, maybe even commanders who tried to get rid of her. 

He still hates that she’s doing it in front of him. 

“Where’re the others?” she asks, leaning on the back of the couch.

“Out on a job,” he answers. 

Her eyes sharpen. “ _All_ of them?”

“Ulchi’s outside on guard duty. But yeah, the rest of them.”

“You didn’t call me out too?”

“You were sleeping.” 

She’s trying to stay neutral, but he can see her conflict. She hates the thought of her squad going out there without her. She’s trying to decide whether he let her sleep because she’s the female. (She seems to be coming to the correct conclusion, which is that he let her sleep because she needed to sleep, and would have done the same for anyone else.) Quickest of all, almost too quick to spot, was the flash of dismay at learning that everyone who wouldn’t need an explanation is beyond easy reach. 

That's what she thinks.

“So,” he says, swinging his legs off the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees. “What was the nightmare about?”

She freezes.

“I’ve been thinking we should do something about the basement,” he says. “It’s too damn cold down there, especially for you and Bido and Ulchi.” 

It was the truth, but it was also not what he’d meant to say. He lives up to his name. It’s hard for him to give things up. But there are things you don’t get without giving something in return. “And frankly,” he says, feeling his mouth curl in self-deprecating smile, like that will lessen the vulnerability of his admission, “it gives me the creeps. I couldn’t sleep down there.” 

Martel’s expression doesn’t change for a long moment. Then she says, “You could have _said_ something.” _About being like us. About having the same fears, the same nightmares, the same scars._

This time, the self-deprecation is honest. “I could have, couldn’t I?” And he could have done something about the basement before this. Now that he thinks about it, he’s annoyed that he hasn’t. What kind of person keeps their valuables in a place where they could be damaged?

But Martel isn’t angry. After all, just like Greed knows about nightmares, she knows about hiding weaknesses. Her shoulders relax out of their rigid set, and she reaches up to scratch the back of her neck where the drying sweat itches.

“Nightmare,” she admits, going back to his question. “Fucking failed experiments all ganging up on me. Not much chance of sleep after that.”

_Not without a bit of reassurance, maybe._ “There’s no way there’s no way,” he says. “C’mere.”

Her eyes narrow. Greed waits. He can be patient, when he’s after something worth waiting for. 

Martel comes over. 

It lights a warm little fire in his heart. Trust is always one of the hardest things to get out of people—especially people like Martel. 

He swings himself back onto the couch and tugs—an invitation, not an order—at her wrist. She takes the invitation and moves with the pull, falling bonelessly on top of him. And he means that in the literal sense: she uses her ability to go rubbery so that she doesn’t knock the wind out of him. 

Nice of her. 

She pillows her head on one folded arm, buries her other hand in the ruff of his jacket. He can feel her fingers flexing in the fur, taking comfort in a texture that she would never have encountered in the labs. 

“Better?” he asks, settling one arm around her waist. Despite her semi-snakey physiology, she warms him right through his clothes, and her hair tickles the underside of his jaw.

“You’re about as comfortable as a pile of rocks,” she tells him, eyes already closed. 

Greed chuckles. “No problem for a snake like you, right?”

He can’t see her face from his position, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Exactly.”


End file.
